


Glitter Like Blood in the Dark

by Zazibine



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: A bunch of mooks get murdered, A very unfortunate coffee mug, Amnesia, Angst, Blood, M/M, Minor Character Death, Reborn had to get his start somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zazibine/pseuds/Zazibine
Summary: It's not fair that Nonno has a piece of Inari's soul. It's not his, after all, and it's so very cruel of him to take it, and- well. Enough of that.Nonno has his piece of soul. Let's give one to someone a little more deserving, shall we?
Relationships: Reborn/Original Male Character
Comments: 38
Kudos: 176





	Glitter Like Blood in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [s.](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=s.).
  * Inspired by [Sass and Win](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20004889) by [AlligatorEyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlligatorEyes/pseuds/AlligatorEyes). 



> This was inspired by the comments section of Sass and Win, especially the mentions of what it would be like if Reborn had been forced to watch Inari die as a sort of force ghost.
> 
> Now I present to you- force ghost Inari!

The year is 1983, he's two days away from turning twenty-one, and he's forgetting something. Or rather, Reborn forgets that he's forgetting something. The coffee mug sits in the store-front window, glittering neon orange and gold in the afternoon light with the words "Don't Hate Me 'Cause I'm Beautiful" painted across it in elegant black calligraphy. If Reborn actually cared about taste, he'd be revolted- it's as garish as sin. But, since he doesn't, all he feels is a strange glee rising in his chest and he steps in to buy the mug immediately.

If the phantom sensation of hands covering his own bubbles up in the back of his mind every time he drinks from it, well. He has Shamal for that.

*

The next time he forgets something, it's two years later and his house is shaking like it's coming apart. Or maybe he's shaking. It could be that. Gunfire echoes in the night, sharp and piercing like thundercracks and he covers his ears as he tries and fails to go back to his dinner. He's lucky as it is that those shots aren't meant for him, but he can't help but wince as the woman in the apartment next door screams. Most prostitutes know better than to invite any of the men around here back to their homes- makes it easier to skip town when they don't know where you live. When the local gangs decide they don't want to pay. When they aren't patient enough to let you remove yourself on your own terms. (Hitman are a bit more reputable in these parts, but it's the same in the end and all the same rules apply. Money exchanged for goods and services, and everyone leaves a little dirtier than before.)

Another, very final-sounding shot and a bullet tears through the flimsy drywall and into his cabinets, shattering the contents inside. A door slams, feet pounding down the staircase and Reborn stares blankly at the remains of his plates and cups. The glittery shards of a mug wink at him accusingly as the lamp overhead swings to and fro, casting strange shadows on the walls.

( His guts twist in his stomach, threatening to revolt as the scent of blood rises in his throat like bile. He can almost taste the iron-slick salt of it on his teeth and a voice in his ear laughs and- And- And.)

Reborn stands up suddenly, wipes his eyes, and spins on his heel to go call his landlord and lodge a complaint. It's a shame. He'd liked that mug.

*

The third time hits like a bullet in the gut, quite literally. A job gone wrong, a slight miscalculation on his part- three, not two tonight. A shame really, usually he's quite good at math. The pain lances through him, burning, wet, and as he collapses to his knees, his ears are suddenly filled with screaming. His own or another's, he can't say, and as Gabriella and Ricardo rush to his side and Ginnie starts firing her own shots into the black, he can't bring himself to care.

(That voice, he knows that voice, but it shouldn't be screaming, not ever. Laughter rings in his ears as the darkness reclaims him and he drowns, drowns, drowns.)

*

The voice comes and goes like clockwork, like the rise fall of a gun. Heart wrenching in its familiarity. He does his best to forget it.

*

The old warehouse is filled with dead people and blood stains, red and rusted marks soaked deep into the concrete. A new coat of fresh blood pools around Reborn's shoes and he takes a few hasty steps back so as to keep them from getting stained. Real leather shoes are so hard to find these days, it wouldn't do to ruin them so quickly.

A fingernail taps on the door to the tune of dripping blood and Reborn has his gun drawn and pointed at the intruder before he's even aware that he'd moved. The woman- and that is what she is, dressed in white and orange and as round as the moon in her maidenhood- laughs at him, soft and fond. She looks like an angel.

(The voice laughs, more whipcrack than whisper, and he winces at it's sharpness. It's always laughed like that, as long as he can remember, and it's never not hurt. He does his best to keep the pain off his face.)

He needs to visit Shamal again, presuming he survives this first.

"Hello Reborn," the woman says, eyes glinting in the half light and sunspots dappling her form, almost blinding in how they reflect off the white of her dress. The roof is riddled with holes and bird's nests, straw and other refuse hanging down and filling the air with a dusty sweetness. It mixes oddly with the tang of blood. "I have deal for you."

*

The voice goes silent for a long time after that. He doesn't remember to miss it.


End file.
